An Uneasy Truce
by S3pia
Summary: "The man is a monster," said Lee, "he cannot be redeemed." "Perhaps not," Haytham agreed, "but I have to try."
1. Chapter 1

So I haven't read Forsaken yet, but it's on my list. My apologies if there's similar conversations in the book.

Spoilers abound.

Ubisoft owns everything

* * *

"It seems I am a father, Charles."

They were seated across from one another in Haytham's quarters, making short work of a pheasant. They had been discussing what Haytham had learned of Church. The missing supplies, the confrontation in the woods and at the brewery, how he had learned that Church had fled, bound for Martinique. Up until then, he had carefully skirted around the particular subject, but Lee had been his closest confidant for over twenty years; it seemed a coward's act to keep something of such magnitude from him. He would surely find out eventually; better that Haytham have the opportunity to explain himself before the man discovered from another source.

Lee's hand paused in mid-air and then, with slow deliberateness, he replaced his fork with a little tinkle of silver on porcelain. Haytham knew he was contemplating what to say to such news by the furrow of his brow and the crimp of his lips.

"Are congratulations in order?" asked Lee cautiously.

"Oh no, far from it. I fear you will hate me for what I'm about to tell you."

"I could never hate you, sir," he said with ardent sincerity.

_We'll see about that_, thought Haytham.

"And who is the lucky mother?"

_A woman who's name I couldn't be bothered to learn to pronounce properly._

"She was an Iroquois. I called her Ziio."

At first Lee did not comprehend, and then he gaped at him, eyes wide. "The little savage from Southgate?"

Haytham's hand tightened in the folds of his cloak rather than strike out. _Careful. My allies are a dying breed these days._ He understood Lee's disdain for the natives, but it was a view he didn't share. The two had argued fervently over the merits and deficiencies of the natives for years, but it was neither the time nor place to reprimand Lee.

"That 'little savage' held George Washington's life in her hands, which is one better than what you've managed thus far," said Haytham with just a touch of acid.

Lee flushed, but did not counter. Haytham waited, silent. He wanted to see if Lee could puzzle it out, the enormity of what Haytham had done.

"That was... what, twenty years past?" asked Lee.

"Twenty-three."

Realization dawned in Lee's eyes. He was silent for several moments, the muscles in his jaw leaping up and down beneath the razor-burn.

"The man in Bridewell prison. The Assassin is _your_ son?" he managed in a whisper that was equal parts horror and rage.

"So it would seem," admitted Haytham quietly. "What gave it away?"

"The eyes. The eyes had given me pause, and now I know why."

They were Ziio's dark, rich brown, but the shape and intensity were all Haytham's.

Lee's chuckle was full of contempt. "Grandmaster Hatham Kenway. A man so deadly that even his seed is murderous."

An absurd statement, but true. Haytham might have laughed, had the situation not been so dire.

"I let someone get too close, Charles. And I assure you, I'm paying the price."

"No. That would be Johnson, Pitcarin and Hickey," said Lee icily. Haytham's second-in-command sighed, leaning against the back of his chair. "I suppose I'm partly to blame. I literally placed a rope around his neck. I should have just shot him in the head and have had done with it, but I thought an execution would provide a decent distraction for Thomas." Instead, it had provided Hickey with a hatchet in the back.

"No one blames you, Charles. I created this mess, I intend to set it to rights."

Lee scoffed. "Best of luck. The man is a ghost."

"As it happens, I know exactly where he is."

Lee sat up ram-rod straight, gritting his teeth. "Then why are we still sitting here?"

"I've been speaking with him, Charles." Haytham held up his hand for quiet as Lee began to protest. "Working with him. He's been helping me track our dear old friend Benjamin Church. I need to assess whether or not he can be reasoned with," said Haytham, treading carefully. "If so, I intend to bring him into our fold."

For a moment Lee just stared at him. "You can't be serious," he said, voice flat and steeped with incredulity.

"Very serious."

"If I were to chance upon a rabid dog in the street, and were fool enough to reach to pet it rather than end its suffering, I would deserve to have it rip me apart."

Well, no arguing that. Haytham had his own doubts. Was he willing to gamble with his life?

"He knows nothing, Charles. He's been so indoctrinated by Achilles that he's-"

"Oh! So, ignorant _and_ deadly. Wonderful," said Lee, cutting him off. He waved a hand. "He's your blood. I understand your hesitation. You want to rectify some perceived wrong that you've done him, but that does not change the facts: he's trying to kill us off, one by one. So far, he's been making a damned successful job of it."

"He had the opportunity to leave me in the forest with Church's men, and didn't."

The threat had been there, though.

He had been distracted out in the forest near Valley Forge, his thoughts whirling. _A son. I have a son._

Haytham had sent Connor off to investigate the smuggler's camp by the creek. He waited until Connor had vanished into the trees, and then followed at a discrete distance. He wanted to see just how talented the young Assassin was. At first, he had difficulty locating him; until he looked up. _No one ever looks up_, Haytham had thought with grim satisfaction. Connor followed the convoy from the trees, agile as a squirrel, swinging from branch to branch with effortless grace, taking care to linger just behind their line of sight. It made plodding about in the snow seem slow and ridiculous. Haytham watched, enthralled.

That was, until the riffle butt slammed into the back of his skull. He must have blacked-out, because the next thing he knew, he was being hauled bodily through the snow. Haytham flicked his wrist to release his blade, but the swirl of snow and legs and trees around him was so dizzying that it was all he could do to stay upright. Someone laughed and yanked him back by his hair. They drug him to their camp and proceeded to take turns rudely rearranging his face.

His vision had swam and focused beyond the men's shoulders. Connor. The boy had said nothing, only slowly approached until he was no more than ten feet from the smugglers, standing there like a statue made flesh. The stranger with Haytham's eyes watched with cold indifference.

_I don't need you,_ the man's eyes said. _I never needed you._

Never the less, the boy released his hidden blades with a flick of his wrists and then plunged them into the kidneys of the closest foe. Connor had decided to save him, and Haytham was dead set on finding out why.

"He and I sail for Martinique at first light. If he cannot be turned, I'll take care of it myself."

"The man is a monster," said Lee, "He cannot be redeemed."

"Perhaps not," Haytham agreed, "but I have to try."

"I can't begin to understand what madness has possessed you," said Lee. "I've always done as you've bade, and never once have I criticized or questioned your judgment. But _this_... Sir, he's an Assassin. Do you really think he can be turned?"

"Well, Achilles managed to convince him that to achieve peace he should wage war. The boy must have a mind as malleable as clay."

"We are speaking of no mere boy, Haytham."

"Correct. He's a man that is resourceful, strong, quick, possesses a cunning of a sort-"

"All superb reasons to kill him on sight."

"He could be useful to us."

Lee's eyes narrowed. "Useful as a knife through the heart. _Listen_ to what you're saying, Haytham!"

He was. This had all gone much better rehearsed in his head. The more ideas he spoke out loud, the more feeble his argument became.

"He's my only _son_, Charles!" Haytham could hear the despair in his voice.

"So _what_?" Lee spat, bringing his fist down on the table with a clatter of plates and glass. "For God's sake, Haytham, you still have the equipment to make more! Traipse into the woods, find another bitch in heat and have her whelp a whole Goddamn litter!"

There was the pound of blood in Haytham's ears, and Lee had toppled backwards, chair and all, before Haytham had realized what he had done. Haytham was standing, and he was dimly aware of an ache in his knuckles and wrist. Lee staggered to his feet with the aid of a nearby desk His other hand clutching his face. He delicately touched his fingers to his lip, examined the blood, and then looked back to Haytham. _If looks could kill,_ he thought, _I'd be a dead man._

Haytham stood motionless, stunned by what he had done.

"Charles, I-"

But Lee was already moving, retrieving his coat from the back of a chair and striking his arm through a sleeve with such force that Haytham heard the silk lining rip. He mashed his hat over his greasy hair and made for the door. Haytham followed.

"Charles, I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry."

Lee said nothing. He flung open the door and it crashed against the stone wall behind it with a bang. Haytham attempted to grab Lee's arm to stop him, to make him understand; it wouldn't do for them to part ways on such terms, but Lee wrenched his arm away with a hiss. His pale eyes glittered in dark sockets.

"If I had known that your dalliance in the forest would cost us three good brothers and bring our Order to the brink of ruin, I would have slit that whore's throat before your very eyes," said Lee, his voice charged with a vehemence that Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of.

With that, Lee turned and stomped through the yard that was more mud than grass, coat swirling in the bracing wind. Haytham watched from the doorway.

"And there," he muttered to himself, "goes my last, true friend."

* * *

Kinda short, but I've got more planned. Let me know what you think!

Also, I'm looking for a Beta, PM me if you're interested.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm really happy that I've had such a positive response! I think I'm going to keep the chapters short, it makes them less daunting to complete.

* * *

"I have a ship," Connor had said the night before, blood still hot from the chase, and then had immediately looked stricken, obviously regretting his exuberance.

"Oh?"

"Yes. We can still catch him."

"'We?'" asked Haytham. "As in, you and I?"

Connor looked indecisive. "I..."

"Come now," said Haytham as he attempted to wring the sea water from his cloak, "in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. Besides, you wouldn't want to miss another opportunity to use me as a battering ram, now would you?"

Connor turned his head away to look towards the docks, but Haytham would have sworn that he had seen just the slightest trace of a smile.

"The dock closest to the windmill on the north side of town. Be there at dawn."

And so he was, teenage porter in tow. There was a wet bite to the wind; it would be snowing in the city soon, as it was in the wilderness. Haytham was not looking forward to it.

"I knew it," laughed Haytham when he saw the frigate. There was no need to ask which vessel Connor had meant. It was an older ship, well past prime, but looked to be well cared for and, more importantly, sea-worthy. The vessel had been heavily modified and repaired recently, the hull a combination of freshly hewed pine and old boards bleached silver by the elements. The most weathered of all was the decorative figurehead; a battered, stylized bird-of-prey swooping in for the kill.

"It would appear," said Haytham to James—or Jim, or John, whatever— "That news of the Aquila's destruction came years premature."

The whey-faced youth said nothing. He was a distant relation of Pitcarin's, a second cousin or in-law of a sister that the man had wanted to raise to the Order, and he had been instructed to speak only when asked a direct question. Even if Haytham's life had been endangered, he doubted the boy would have said anything even then. He blanched every time Haytham deigned to look his way, making the pimples on his forehead and cheeks even more glaringly ugly.

There was a tall, straight-backed man in a tri-cornered hat near the gangway, hands clasped behind him. The captain, Haytham presumed, going over a chart with an older man, possibly a first-mate. It wasn't until the man's head suddenly jerked up in Haytham's direction that he realized that it was Connor. He looked every inch a young man of high breeding and social standing, once he'd been divested of that ridiculous hood and fringed boots. His navy overcoat was well cut and finely tailored, his glossy black hair tamed into a tail at the nape of his neck, and there was a white cravat at his throat, stark against his sun-bronzed face. The man was armed to the teeth as well, but that was not what made Haytham's guts churn with anxiety and regret.

_He should be taking his grand tour of Europe about now_, Haytham thought, bitterly, _that's what young_ _gentlemen are supposed to do after after attending studies at Oxford. He should be chastely courting some Earl's daughter and tumbling the milkmaids for practice, and taking up breeding race horses or hunting hounds to pass the time before he comes into his inheritance, as the sons of the idle rich are wont to do. _

_Instead, he's dedicated his life to killing me._

Connor's face was stone. There was no trace of the amusement that had softened his face the night before. He watched Haytham and the lad approach, wordless, eyes inscrutable. When the older man realized that Conner was not examining the document or even listening to a word he was saying, he looked up as well. The old man's eyes narrowed. He looked familiar, although the ship had clearly weathered better than he.

"Mister Faulkner, meet..." Connor hesitated.

"I know who he is," growled Falkner with his angry, disapproving squint.

Haytham grinned wolfishly. "Long time, no see, Robert. How's Amanda? Still keeping a candle in the window for you at Martha's Vineyard?"

Robert Falkner's skin went as gray as his beard. Haytham was inordinately pleased that he could strike fear into a man with such little ammunition. It paid to keep such a wide network of informants.

"I would thank you," said Conner sternly, "not to threaten my crew, father." The last word was said as if it were almost a curse.

"Why _son_," said Haytham, following suit, "you should know I never threaten." Not when promises were so much more effective.

"It seems to me that you need my help more than I need yours," Connor reminded him. "It is my ship, after all."

Well, of course it would fall to Connor to pilot the vessel. As far as the Order knew, Achilles and Conner were the only Assassins north of the Potomac River, and since Hickey had thought it the height of hilarity to slash Achilles' Achilles before they had let him slink off into the woods in disgrace, Haytham doubted the man could have withstood a long voyage, by sea or land, without considerable torment.

Haytham took the hint. Connor's tolerance for him was already strained to the point of breaking, it wouldn't be wise to exacerbate things further.

"In the interests this..." This what? Truce? Détente? Inquisition? Was there a word that summed up a period of time in which a father weighed the positives and negatives of murdering his only son? "...This expedition, so long as we're working together, I'll do your men no harm," promised Haytham, doing his best to sound sincere. Surprisingly, Connor did not melt into a puddle of familial affection.

"How kind," said his son, deadpan.

"Well, then. Permission to come aboard... 'Captain,' is it?"

"It is. And you may," said Conner, and he jerked a chin at the lad behind Haytham. "But not him."

Haytham started to protest, "But—"

"No servants. Everyone pulls their own weight here."

Haytham sighed. "Very well. Off you go, then." He waved a hand dismissively, and the young man set down his trunk and shuffled off in the opposite direction as fast as he could without actually running.

Connor nodded to the cargo. "Mister Falkner, please see Master Kenway's things aboard, then show him to his quarters."

Haytham was secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to carry the thing himself. His back was still one giant, throbbing knot of pain from the night before.

"Anything else?"

"Make sure he that he has everything he needs," he said in an oddly distracted manner. Troubled, almost. Connor's eyes were not focused on Haytham. Rather, it was as if he were seeing through him.

"Aye, Captain," Faulkner answered. The old man grabbed the handles and strode up the gangway, grunting alarmingly with every step. Haytham followed. Upon the deck there was a flurry of activity, men rushing this way and that, strapping down crates and loosening sails, checking the rigging.

"God _damn,_" huffed Faulkner, and he somewhat placed, mostly dropped Haytham's trunk to the gun deck.

"Take care with that," commanded Haytham irritably.

"What do you have in there? _Bricks_?"

"Yes, I was quite planning to cobble the deck to amuse myself."

Actually, the trunk was mostly books. Time had been of the essence. He had had less than twelve hours after the incident at the brewery to return to his quarters at Fort George, pack, and bring Lee the news of his intentions, and find Connor's ship on the opposite end of town. Haytham picked the trunk because it was a third empty, and rather than sort through and decide what he wanted to bring to pass time on the voyage, he just stacked his clothes and sundries atop the books and mashed the lid down. He wondered if Connor would have any interest in Haytham's collection, and then realized with a heavy heart that he did not even know if the boy could read.

Behind them, Haytham could hear the boy in question giving orders to push off.

_Man,_Haytham corrected himself. He really must stop thinking of Connor as a mere _boy_. Boys were care free and childish. They collected bugs to torment girls they secretly fancied, and thought no further ahead than supper. Boys did not captain ships, or start revolutions, or single-handedly murder generals in front of their entire platoons and escape completely unscathed.

Nor did they save their fathers from burning alive.

"I'll have someone with a younger back bring it down shortly," grumbled someone. Ah, Faulkner. Right. They were supposed to be going somewhere. The old man pushed the trunk out of the way so that it stood with some other cargo, and then bade Haytham to follow.

Haytham had not expected to be given a bed in the Captain's quarters, which were reserved for honored guests, but he would have been pleased with an officer's bunk. Haytham's mood soured when they descended not one but two decks. His stomach lurched as the floor moved beneath him. He braced himself against a post and Faulkner gave a snort of derision, not even breaking stride, clearly more comfortable at sea than on land. Haytham heard Connor bellowing orders above them.

"Did he say full sail?"

"Aye," confirmed the first-mate.

"Is that not just a tad reckless in a busy harbor?"

"Captain knows what his business is about. You best keep to yours," he said coolly. They came to a compartment. "After you." Faulkner stiffly gestured to what must have been intended to be his quarters for the voyage.

Haytham needed to stoop to enter. The room was depressingly devoid of even a modicum of comfort. There was a rope-supported bed with a straw mattress that would require a man to curl like a shrimp just to keep his feet from the floor. Opposite that was a plank wedged between two timbers that he supposed was to serve as a desk, a mean little stool, an open gunport to serve as a window, and a bucket. _A bucket? _There had been no need for a bucket in his quarters upon the Providence.He frowned at the object with disdain, trying to discern the significance.

"This is more monk cell than cabin," he scoffed, insulted.

"Damn straight!" growled Faulkner, and Haytham turned just in time to see the old man's furious face vanish behind the slamming door.

"NO!" Haytham roared, and flung himself at the wood, ignoring the screaming protest of his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and exerted all the force he could muster. The wood gave and he could see a slash of red, sweat-beaded flesh and one startled blue eye. Faulkner shouted for help, and men came to his aid in short order, Haytham staggered back at the force. He heard a cross-brace slam home, and, just that quick, he was caged. He pounded on the door with his fist until he felt his hand go numb, shouted and roared for his son, and when his demands were met with nothing but gull cries and the groan of the ship, he kicked out at the stool. The seat split in two.

"Well, shit," he grumbled.

Haytham rarely swore, but, on occasion, it was the only word that fit.


	3. Chapter 3

I know nothing about sail boats. Just gonna put that out there. Also a longer chapter, but I don't think anyone'll mind.

* * *

Within minutes, Haytham had ascertained that there was nothing that he could do. Perhaps he could have slipped through the gunport fifty years ago, but the opening was far too small for an adult to wriggle through. He cursed his own foolish optimism. What had he thought, that Connor would welcome him with open arms? That they would stroll leisurely about the deck in the blazing sunshine, hand in hand? Drink tea, eat little finger sandwiches and dainties and play backgammon all the way to the Caribbean?

_Oh no, fruit of my loins, why don't you be the one to stab Mister Church in the face? I insist. _

_Why, beloved father, you are ever so generous, I couldn't possibly rob you of the satisfaction; after you._

Well, no, but he obviously hadn't considered the opposite end of the spectrum, which was that Connor would have him imprisoned within minutes of boarding. Haytham counted himself lucky that the boy hadn't merely gutted him on sight.

It occurred to Haytham that Lee had been absolutely right. Of course the Assassin couldn't be turned. Connor hated him, that was evident enough even at the first. His own son was under the impression that Haytham had ordered Lee to raise Ziio's village to the ground, a thought so monstrous that it made his blood boil and heart ache all at once.

Thrashing about and screaming like a wild animal was only going to get him bloody fists and a strained voice, so left with nothing to do but brood, he stood at the gunport, watching the scenery slip by. New York was rapidly diminishing. The smoke of campfires slid silently through the burnt skeletons of buildings, blackened fingers of the remains reaching skywards. Gradually, the husks were replaced by stately new town homes and shops, and then the brick buildings grew farther apart, timber structures in their stead, and even those were not in view for very long. Finally, there were rude log buildings, fields, orchards, and then the trees.

Endless, endless trees. The forests of America were like nothing Haytham had ever seen. They were dark, virgin and vast, seemingly inexhaustible of timber and game. They stretched as far as the eye could see in an almost unbroken mass, all the way to the gently rolling mountains of the west, and probably beyond. Even the natives were unsure how large America was. They just assumed that the land west went on forever, or that the distance was so vast as to make no difference. Places like Boston, New York, and Philadelphia had made decent strides to cut out little bastions of civilization, clinging to the lifeblood of shipping lanes and sheltered bays, but the interior was still unashamedly, stubbornly wild.

Beautiful and cruel, generous and deadly. Just like Ziio.

_She's dead. She's dead and I was so absorbed in my work that it took me more than a decade to even notice._

The pain in Connor's voice when he had relayed the tragedy had been so fresh and raw that it might have happened just the other day. The news had been a stab in the heart. He had given up ever seeing her again long ago, after he had been turned away from her village and threatened with violence should he ever return. He had just assumed that she had decided that Haytham had been too alien to have a lasting relationship with. That perhaps she preferred to follow in her mother's ancient traditions rather than subject herself to the madness and useless complexity of his world. That perhaps she simply had no use for him once Braddock's threat to their village had been so thoroughly eradicated. Started afresh with someone else, someone of her own kind, someone that could pronounce her name in her own tongue. Someone to start a family with. Someone to grow old with.

Instead, she was dead. Murdered.

Haytham was still trying to piece together what exactly had happened. Since Lee had stormed out of his quarters, Haytham had left written instructions for him to investigate the matter, among rather a lot else. He was wondering if he would ever discover the truth when—

"Ships!" someone yelled, "Aft!"

Aft? Haytham had to think. That was behind the ship, he thought he remembered. Which meant someone was following them. He could hear feet drumming the decks above him. A few tense minutes went by before he heard Connor bellow, _"BATTLE STATIONS!"_

All around him he could feel the ship humming with anticipation. All around him there were stamping feet, shouts and sharp commands, cannons being rolled into positions. He craned his head out of the gunport as much as he dared and looked along the flank of the ship. He could see two ships sailing along and intercept course, schooners, almost skipping along the surface of the water in the larger ship's wake. Their gunports were opening too, and he saw the flash an instant before he heard the _BOOM _of their cannons.

It occurred to him that perhaps standing at the open gunport was an invitation to have his head blown off, so he backed away as far as he could, crouching, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword out of habit, bracing for an impact. It didn't come. Instead he heard a queer noise as something whirled through the air, high overhead. Chain shot. They were trying to disable the sails. Which meant that there was something—or some_one_—that the ship didn't want damaged. Haytham heard the smaller swivel cannons off the wheel deck of the Aquila firing, but not the broadside cannon, which meant that the smaller ships were determined to stay out of range. A smart move, but it wouldn't work forever. Haytham felt the ship lurch as the Aquila turn against the wind to fire.

Haytham could feel the concussive force in his chest as the cannons above and to the sides of him fire. It may have been the loudest thing he had ever heard in his life.

"Hit! That one is done," someone—probably Faulkner announced, cautiously optimistic, but as soon as the word was issued there was an answering volley. There was the explosion of of dry wood, the rip of fabric, the snap of ropes frayed beyond capacity, the pounding on the deck, and an ominous groan of a mast coming loose from its moorings. Haytham had seldom felt so helpless in his life.

"Jesus, they mean t'ram us!" someone said.

"No, they mean to ram us _and then _board us!" another replied.

"Captain, do we—?"

"Captain, the muskets—"

"Good God, lookit'em all—"

"Dunno how many it'll take to overrun the ship, I knows how many they's gonna use—"

"_Maintain your stations!"_ came Faulkner's command. _"Put down those guns and stick to the bloody cannons!" _

And then Haytham didn't need to stick his head out the gunport, for one of the ships had pulled up next to the Aquila, a blur of faces, rigging, cannons, wood—the two ships collided, a screech and groan of timber. He was thrown back against the door of his compartment, his head colliding against the unyielding surface. Nails were popping in the compartment Haytham was trapped in, splintered timber began to press inwards, buckling, the sound of ropes and grappling hooks whirling through the air, extra sets of boots landing on the top deck—

"_FIRE BROADSIDE! FIRE SWIVEL!"_

The cannons roared once more, the noise deafening as it reverberated between the two ships—

"_CUT THOSE LINES!"_

The Aquila was rocked as there came a _BOOM_ from the other ship, but not from the cannons, the smell of gunpowder in the air overwhelming, and both ships shuddered, the smaller vessel ignited, spraying deadly splinters and shrapnel.

When his ears stopped ringing, Haytham could hear steel crashing against steel, musket fire, and the sounds of men dying.

The wood behind him gave way and Haytham spilled into the main passage, sprawled out like a drunk, two faces above him, several more waited just outside of his periphery.

"Get up, ya bloody Templar bastard!"

Rather than wait, one of the men—a brute with face that belonged in a parlor of grotesques—yanked him up under the arm, hauling Haytham bodily to his feet. Another grabbed Haytham's other arm and the two began to half walk, half drag him towards the stairs to the upper decks. He stumbled; the wood beneath him had shifted, leaning at a conspicuous angle.

"I can walk just fine, _gents_," sneered Haytham, wrenching his arms away.

The ugly one growled, and made to grab at Haytham again, but a flick of the wrist parted the lace at the cuff of his sleeve and his blade gleamed dangerously in the low light, sharp enough to shave with, stout enough to pierce a man's skull or sever a spine with one well-placed thrust. The eye that remained to the grotesque widened.

"Place a hand on me again," said Haytham slowly, enunciating every syllable, "and it will belong to me."

"Captian's orders," the other said, watched the blade warily, "Yer commin' 'wit us,"

"Very well," Haytham replied cordially, "lead the way."

He could just kill them. He still had the sword at his waist, his pistol, his not-so-hidden blade. He was still damned quick, despite his age, wagered he could kill at least four of them before they could muster a defense and put up a real fight. He had a feeling, however, that action would not be well-received. Although he had broken promises beyond count in his strange, secretive, and violent career, he would keep the one he had made to Connor to do no harm. At least for now.

They went topside. The ship was listed heavily to one side. One of the masts dangled precariously over the water, the remaining sails hung in tatters. Men rushed about, dousing small fires, spreading sand over slick patches of blood. What small number of men that had boarded in the short moments that the two ships had touched, none still lived. There was a splash as two men gripped a third by the ankles and under the arms and threw him, unceremoniously, into the sea. All around Haytham men sneered and scowled at him as they tended to their wounds, muttered and outright cursed him as they did their best to neutralize the worst of the damage to the ship.

"Captain!" the one-eyed man announced. Haytham looked about. The water was littered with tattered sailcloth, burning wood and various other debris. Thankfully, most of it seemed to be from the wreckage of the two doomed schooners slowly sinking beneath the waves, their crew either thrashing towards something that floated, or were floating themselves, face down.

Connor stalked up, a disheveled Faulkner at his heels, struggling to keep up with the young man's long strides. The Assassin's coat and shirt were slashed with blood, but Haytham suspected that none of it was his own. His son's eyes glittered dangerously, lips drawn back from his startlingly white teeth in a snarl. There was a saber clutched in his fist, streaked with red.

"I never should have trusted you," spat Connor, and he threw something at Haytham's feet. It bounced off his boot and fell to the deck with a leaden thud. It was a ring, the blood upon it still wet. It was crudely wrought, steel and red enamel rather than silver studded with rubies, but it was a Templar ring all the same.

"Tell me why I should not just slit your throat!" Connor demanded.

"I had nothing to do with this," Haytham said.

"Bullocks!" shouted Faulkner.

"I saw Lee at the docks," said Connor darkly. "What did you hope to do? Catch us unawares? Take over the ship and execute my crew?"

Charles? Why would he... Well, of course, he had followed Haytham. Lee had thought Haytham's idea of gallivanting off on the high seas with someone that had been sworn to eradicate the Templar the very epitome of idiocy, after all. He had also probably heard Haytham screaming and pounding on the door of his makeshift prison as well; the gun port had been open, after all. And when a man thinks his friend is in danger, he tries to do what he can to rescue him. And if the man in questions just happens to be a Templar with a small army of mercenaries at his disposal, well...

_Ah, Charles, you may have just killed me, coming to my rescue._

"I wanted Church. And to get to know my son," insisted Haytham, "that's all."

"You are about to get to know your _son_ more than you would like!"

Connor charged. Haytham did not have time to draw his sword, he caught Connor's downward arc with his Assassin's dagger, narrowing avoiding his arm being lopped off at the shoulder. Haytham kicked out at Connor's shin, earning him a hiss, and they broke apart, Haytham got enough space to draw his sword across his body.

"My trunk is full of books," said Haytham, parrying another blow. "What kind of an idiot would bring a trunk full of books onto the deck of a ship he intended to scuttle?"

It was a weak defense, but a fair question. The Stamp Act and all of the various import duties made the cost of paper outrageously expensive, and few books were printed in the Colonies. Books were rare and valuable items indeed.

"I would not know, I am not the idiot in question!"

They clashed again. _Goddamn, he's stronger than he looks,_ Haytham thought with something like pride, deflecting another blow, felt the raw power behind it. Slash, thrust, side-swipe, down-swipe, underhanded cut, Haytham parried or deflected all of Connor's strikes, but every one that connected sent a jarring vibration up his arm. _Too much more of this and my arm will go numb._

As Connor's sword met his, the Assassin extended the blade on his left wrist, slicing at Haytham's face, using he slope of the deck to his advantage. The Templar recoiled, but not fast enough, the steel catching him at the eyebrow, so sharp and quick that Haytham wasn't certain he'd been cut at all until blood began to seep into his eye. _Bastard_.

The rest of the crew formed around them in a rough circle, swords, daggers, muskets in their hands, screaming suggestions at their Captain and obscenities at the Templar, giving the two men a wide birth. _If I kill him, _Haytham thought, looking around him when he could afford to do so, _they'll rip me apart like wolfhounds on a stag._

The boy was good, he'd give him that, but lacked finesse. Connor was quick, agile, and strong, and in most cases that would have been enough kill conscripted farm boys and officers that had sparred once or twice at academy, but Haytham had been fighting blade to blade and dealing death long before Connor was even a mischievous sparkle in Ziio's eyes. Low, high, low again, lunging, Haytham anticipating where he would be, steel catching Connor's thigh, a blossom of blood forming on the Assassin's trouser leg, eliciting an outraged gasp of pain.

Connor pressed the attack again, sword whirling, pushing Haytham back and forcing him to defend again, and then the Templar's legs twisted in something, a mess of rigging, and the downward slope of the ship made it impossible to recover. He fell hard on his back, landing in an undignified heap that almost knocked the wind out of him. Connor's foot made to stamp down hard on Haytham's sword hand but he still had the presence of mind to roll away. Haytham's free hand found something interesting on the deck, and as Connor made to bring his sword down again the Templar flung a fist full of blood-soaked sand in the Assassin's face. Connor coughed, staggered back, giving Haytham just enough time to find his feet again. Haytham aimed low past the boy's defenses, delivered a strike to Connor's side that might have gutted him, had he not used the spine of his blade.

The mercy was not lost on Connor. He paused, point of his sword aimed at the deck, rubbing at his streaming eyes. Haytham took the opportunity to swipe the blood out of his own eye.

"You fight dirty," huffed Connor.

"That's right," gasped Haytham, breathing hard, his back a white hot plane of agony. "Learn to do the same, and maybe—maybe you'll live long enough to father your own mistakes!"

Oh, what an ugly snarl that raised. Connor launched another attack so furious that Haytham was hard pressed to fend it off. Haytham aimed another cut but his opponent dropped low to one knee, the man's other leg sweeping out in a wide arc, and Haytham was on the ground again, landing hard on his knees and hands, his blade skittering across the deck, then Connor tackled him completely to the ground. They rolled, the two men landing as many kicks and blows as the close quarters allowed. Haytham felt the boy pull back his hand to stab with the blade and Haytham caught the Assassin's wrist, wrenching it back so hard Connor yelled.

And then, all of a sudden, there was steel at Haytham's throat. He froze. Connor was sitting astride him, the steel point of the boy's second hidden blade pressed against his Adam's apple.

"Should have—have left you to burn in that warehouse—" he panted, red eyes glaring down into the Templar's with a hate that was unparalleled by anything Haytham had ever seen before. "Just like my mother burned!"

"Then why didn't you?" gasped Haytham, glaring back just as hard.

"I wanted answers," growled Connor, pressing in just a fraction of an inch, and a bead of blood coursed down Haytham's neck, staining his cravat, "Why? Why did you order Lee to attack my village? Why did you kill my mother?"

Haytham had had enough. "You ignorant little _fool_," Haytham hissed face contorting in rage, heedless of the death at his throat and inches from his face, "I didn't kill her!"

Connor's eyes narrowed. Ziio's coloring, Haytham's shape.

"Liar—!"

"Why would I _kill_ the only woman I ever _loved_?" Haytham snarled.

Connor's face softened in confusion, eyes widening, his blade drawing back slightly, an inch, maybe less, but it was just enough—

"What?"

And Haytham slammed his fist into the side of Connor's head with as much force as he could muster, right into the tender flesh of the Assassin's ear, and Connor howled with pain, reeling back, giving Haytham enough room to crawl away, he dove for his sword—

"Touch that and you're a dead man, Templar!" someone shouted. Falkner. He had a pistol trained at Haytham's head, his face the very picture of revulsion mingled with fury.

Just then someone with more sense remembered just where they were. One of the crewmen, the ugly brute, as it happened, had the foresight to turn his back on the entertainment and look back over the bow of the heavily damaged Aquila.

"_SHIP!"_


	4. Chapter 4

"Up with you," Faulkner commanded, and Haytham complied, staggered to his feet, forgoing his sword for the time being. He held his hands up, hoping that Faulkner would at the very least wait for Connor's order to shoot Haytham in the face. Connor was pressing his hand to the side of his head, grimacing, swaying, equilibrium obviously effected, and Haytham repressed a pang of concern and quickly replaced the emotion with a cold sort of vindication. Good, served him right. If the lad couldn't handle a good box to the ear, he had no business being an Assassin.

Haytham saw the ship in question. It was another schooner, heading towards the Aquila from the mainland. It appeared that, for the moment, the crew's attention had been diverted from watching father and son bloody each other, and they rushed about to their places without so much as a shout from their captain or first-mate. Connor, Haytham and Faulkner found themselves to be a still island in a roiling sea of activity.

"Spyglass," called Connor, weary, and a cabin boy hurried off to fetch him one.

"More bloody Templars, I'll warrant," Faulkner spat, locking eyes with Haytham, "I say we give their puppet master back to 'em. In pieces."

The dark look on Connor's face suggested that the idea was not out of the question.

"Aquila's status, Mister Faulkner."

"We're dead in the water," said Faulkner, and for a moment Haytham could see the appeal of having the old drunk around; the first-mate was not one to mince words or downplay a dire situation. "Three cannons are blown. Johnson and the younger Clutterbuck are pretty banged up but otherwise we've got a full complement."

The cabin boy returned with the spyglass and Connor snapped the interlocking brass tubes out to their fullest and looked out. He frowned.

"There are maybe fifty men on deck."

As they watched, the ship let fly two shots, arcing high over the water. The Aquila was still out of range and the cannon balls slapped harmlessly into the water, far short of the ship, but the hostile intentions were clear.

"Well, it's been grand, son," said Haytham, mockingly cheerful. "Thank you for the lovely morning, but it appears I have business elsewhere."

"You are going nowhere," Connor said flatly.

"I beg to differ. I rather think the situation is no longer in your control," Haytham pointed out. "Let me go to them, I'm the one they want, after all."

Connor gave him a withering look. "So that you can order them to fire on us as soon as you are safe?" Well, that was certainly an attractive idea at the moment.

"Attack my son after he's been _so hospitable?_ Perish the thought."

"The only way you're leaving this ship is as a corpse," Faulkner rumbled.

That was looking more and more likely. The odds were certainly not in Connor's favor, and clearly the lad had no use for him as anything more than a hostage. Connor had a fair number of men but not near enough to fight off such a force without considerable losses. In the confusion, there was a chance that Haytham could make it over to the other ship, should Haytham's men come close enough to board, but the risk was too great. Equally, the schooner could become so heavily damaged that it, too, could become helpless. The Templar needed those men; Haytham had interests in almost every town of note in the colonies, and with the Assassin's meddling and the war their holds on the colonies were tenuous at best. He couldn't afford to have them undone just because of some ill-fated rescue operation.

At that point, Haytham would have rather rowed to the Caribbean on a raft than spend another moment on that deck with his hateful, ignorant son, but for the time being he didn't see any other viable alternatives.

"I suppose in the interests of keeping the peace," Haytham said through gritted teeth, "I could order them to stand down."

Connor gave him _that_ look; full lips thinning, eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils flaring, suspicion and contempt wrapped into one. He had never looked more like his mother.

"I cannot risk it."

"I'm their Grand Master, they'll do whatever I tell them to do."

"That does _not_ fill me with confidence," said his son dryly.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "We're dead in the water. Even if you sink them—and there's nothing saying you will—more will come."

"He... might have a point there, captain," Faulkner admitted, grudgingly.

"Trust me, and no one else need die today."

Connor looked the ship over again, his gaze appraising, eyes pausing when they scanned past a crew member. The young man had a kind heart, said numerous sources of Haytham's. A gentle nature, humble, a propensity to avoid open conflict as much as possible. He wondered how the boy balanced all that mercy and kindness against his astounding talent for killing people.

"Do it," says Connor.

Haytham looked side-long at Faulkner. "Do you mind?"

Faulkner's lips thinned, but he lowered his pistol. He did not, Haytham noted, holster it. With that out of the way, Haytham removed his cloak and stepped towards the side of the boat in view of the approaching ship. Connor raised an eyebrow when Haytham began to wave the heavy article at the ship, first the blue, then the red, then the blue twice.

"What are you doing?"

_I have no idea, _Haytham could have told him. "Signaling our intentions."

Biddle, on one of the rare occasions that they had met in person, had tried to explain the intricacies of signal flags, but the topic had failed to interest Haytham. After several sea voyages that had been entirely too eventful, he had resolved not to step foot on a ship again, if he could help it. Hopefully, Haytham had conveyed some desire to converse and not some vulgarity that would make the ship all the more likely to fire upon them.

"Ready starboard cannons," commanded Connor, clearly not wanting to take any chances.

The other ship had approached to the point where Haytham could begin to make out the people on board. At first, the schooner did not correct course, as if fully intending to ram the larger vessel, but then veered off, pulling along the Aquila's side at a distance and trimming their sails. The schooner was well within range of the larger vessel's cannons, should Connor give the word. He could make out men with muskets on deck, a few of them sighting along the barrels experimentally.

"Give us Haytham Kenway!" came the shout across the water.

The calm water made for an excellent medium to convey their voices. Haytham only had to half yell to be heard, even at such a distance.

"I'm here!"

He could hear a muffled conversation on the opposite ship. He could see sunlight glint off of something on the opposite deck, a spyglass, most like. They were examined by the opposing captain.

"Grand Master! Are you harmed?"

"Whom do I address?"

"Captain Ben Yeats, of the Mayfly!" The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place the face.

"Captain Yeats, why have we been fired upon?" There was a pause, the man on the other side of the water taken aback.

"General Lee was concerned for your well-being! He anticipated that you would be taken hostage, sir!"

Well, then General Lee was far smarter than Master Kenway, apparently. Of course, Lee had most certainly sealed Haytham's fate himself when Connor spied Lee from the docks.

"I am here of my own volition, Captain Yeats!"

"But, Master Kenway, you seem to be in distress!" The man must have had a decent spyglass. The captain could probably discern his bloodied face, his rumpled clothes.

"Why, just a difference of opinions, Captain Yeats! I'm sure if Captain Conner had meant to kill me, I would already be dead!" Quieter, "Isn't that right, Connor?"

Connor did not respond.

"Tell Charles that I am well and that he needn't trouble himself further!"

"But, Sir, General Lee—"

"General Lee is back in New York! _I_ am speaking to you right now, and the Grand Master is telling you that_ I_ am in no need of assistance!"

"Sir, you're bleeding!"

"Just _mind_ me, Captain Yeats! That's all I ask of you!"

There was some hesitation. He could hear snippets of a muffled conversation as the captain and another debated. The captain on the other ship hesitated, but he acquiesced, "If you think it wise, sir!"

He didn't. Far from it. But if the schooner pursued, more would die, and Haytham would most likely perish shortly thereafter.

"Give General Lee my regards!"

Connor watched the schooner depart and did not dismiss his men from their battle stations until the ship was well away. Haytham could feel the tension in the air, rising off of Connor like heat, and did not alleviate even after the immediate danger had passed. Finally, he ordered that the damaged mizzen mast be hauled back onto the deck for repairs.

"We should be able to limp to Monmouth if we can get some of those sails repaired," Faulkner suggested.

"Agreed. Have the men start taking what's left of them down," said Connor, probing at the side of his head gingerly. The ear had swollen to nearly three times it's normal size, red and agitated.

"I could see to that ear for you," said Haytham, meaning that he was willing to stab into the flesh of Connor's ear and then squeeze the blood from it, lest his son end up with the cauliflower ear that so many boxers bore. It wold likely be excruciatingly painful. It was the closest thing to recompense that Haytham was willing to concede.

"No, you are going to climb the foremast and start taking in the sails."

Haytham bristled. "You take me for one of your crew?"

"No, none of my men have ever held a knife to my throat," Connor pointed out, bordering on hostile. "What else can you do?"

"Other than kill, you mean? Well, I'm told that I'm a brilliant conversationalist and dance an exquisite reel."

"Can you tie knots? Sew? Cook?"

Haytham scoffed. "What exactly is it you think Templars do when we're not plotting?"

"It is my ship. You can either be my crew, or you can be my hostage. There's no room for idle gentlemen."

"And if I refuse?"

Connor pointed back over his shoulder. The coastline was an almost imperceptible jagged edge along the curve of the horizon.

"New York is that way. I hope you can swim."


	5. Chapter 5

If it had been Connor's intention to exhaust Haytham to the point where he would cease to be a threat, he had succeeded. Haytham couldn't recall a time in recent memory when he had felt so physically wretched and drained. The incident at the brewery, his scuffle with Connor, and the repairing of the sails had all taken their toll and combined to make him feel thoroughly miserable. Every muscle of his being ached atrociously. Assisting with the sails that had been the most punishing. Even full of holes, it must have been still several hundred pounds of linen all together, and it had been difficult to maneuver so much weight while balancing precariously on a boom or holding on to a swaying bit of rigging. Sweat stung his bandaged cut above his eye, and the palms of his hands burned at the coarseness of the rope. The putting up the patched sail cloth was worse, because not only was it heavier, but it also caught the wind and threatened to rip itself out of his hands before he could get it secured.

The fact that Connor had stripped out of his captain's regalia to help assuaged his wounded pride somewhat, especially when it appeared that Connor was having a uncomfortable time of it himself. Haytham hadn't gutted him during their little battle, but the blow that he had dealt him had not been a light one. No doubt the ribs were bruised; he favored the side that Haytham had struck. Sweat soaked his shirt despite the chill in the air. Faulkner had done the honor of draining the ear, and the bandage on the side of Connor's head soon blossomed with blood. Connor was more nimble than Haytham, however, and bore the work with more ease, clearly in the prime of his physical abilities. Watching Connor's effortless grace, Haytham was all too aware that he was rapidly becoming an old man.

Connor realized it too, perhaps. Haytham had to mask his surprise when Connor swung over to assist Haytham get the sailcloth to a boom after watching him struggle with the weight on his own. When Haytham's hands stubbornly refused to make the appropriate knots, he assisted with those tasks as well. If it was pity that drove Connor to assist him, or he was simply impatient with his father's fumbling, Haytham did not know. They did not speak. When their gazes happened to meet, the gray and brown eyes were mirrors of spite and simmering resentment.

Father and son, working together at last.

What little sail there was caught the wind and they began to move again, although at a fraction of their previous speed. The strip of land loomed closer and closer, and by the time Haytham could pick out a timber steeple that had broken the line of trees, it was nearly dusk. When Connor ordered a man to escort Haytham back below deck, he could have cried in relief. He followed meekly and without the slightest protest.

They were two days in Monmouth, making repairs. Haytham was confined to quarters for the entirety of that time. Connor needn't have bothered; it wasn't as if he were going to present himself to the nearest soldiers and claim to have been kidnapped. The town was under British control for the moment (and for eternity if Washington was as incompetent as Charles claimed). It was unlikely that he would be recognized, but it was not a risk he was willing to take. Although the British weren't entirely certain who it was that Haytham held allegiance to, they probably suspected that he was a rebel sympathizer, and he was a known associate of rebel general Charles Lee. Nor was Haytham like to steal a horse; he was too sore to ride properly, and it would be a long, arduous ride back to New York through a frigid and snowy wilderness.

It was not as if Haytham was chomping at the bit to traipse around some backwater village, but what galled him was that he was not even given the option to do so. He had been moved to a slightly larger cabin this time around, the other needing repairs from the battle, and on the upper gun deck rather than the lower, but the space was just as comfortless and just as much a prison. He had no books, no paper. He could only clean his gun and sharpen his blades so much. "I demand to speak to your _captain_," he spat when one of the sailors brought him a stew (the same stew, he suspected, that had been brought to him twice before) and the man laughed in his face as if Haytham's demands were the height of hilarity before slamming the door and securing it from the outside. He was left with nothing to do but sleep, eat, wait, and listen.

Sleep was hard-won. As weary as he was that first night, and even the second, he should have been dead to the world, but at every pound of a mallet or footfall outside the cabin he was jerked out of a shallow rest and instantly on guard. The noise of the ship's repair was deafening at times. He listened to the hammering as men repair the mast and the iron-reinforced lattice of the hull, listened to them groan and curse, cough and hack up phlegm. Voices didn't carry quite so well, but if he concentrated, Haytham could make out enough of their banal conversations to make him want to bash his own head into the wall. He heard them complain about their harpies of wives or the sexual proclivities of the wenches at the local tavern, complain about the cold bite of the air and the short notice of their long voyage. However, not once did they complain about their captain.

Speak of the devil, he heard two voices in particular drift down from somewhere overhead, could hear two sets of feet pacing the deck, one gate long and purposeful, one shorter with the step more uneven, as if afflicted by a limp.

"...If Achilles knew that bastard was on this boat—" Faulkner's voice.

"He does not. And I intend to keep it that way." Connor interrupted.

"Well _I'm_ sure as shit not going to tell him, he'd be wanting to bash my head in with that damned stick of his."

So the boy was keeping secrets from his master. Interesting. Perhaps he had a bit of free will after all.

"Every day that he's on this ship, he puts us in danger," said Faulkner. "At this rate, even if we find a strong heading, this—who is he, again?"

"Benjamin Church," replied Connor. "You met him, once. He was at Miss Amanda's inn with Biddle."

Haytham was surprised by how soft-spoken the man was, and then he remembered that he had never heard Connor speak a word to him that was not cold, brusque, or openly hostile.

"Squinty fella with the wig? I remember. Anyway, I doubt we'll find him before he reaches the Caribbean. That's a long time to sit around and collect information. The men are worried about their families."

"I have given the Templar far more important things to worry about then tracking down a few dozen sailors."

"You so sure about that? Lad, you don't even know him. What he and his lot did to your people, to Achilles and the Assassins—they've made an art out of ruining lives."

"I am aware," said Connor, sounding introspective.

"He's a monster. A well-heeled, silver-tongued monster, but a monster all the same. He kills people with the same effort as a man draws breath, and gives the act no more thought."

There was a deep, uncomfortable silence that followed. Haytham would have given anything to have seen the look on his son's face.

"You know I'm right," said Faulkner, gently, "It's terrible thing, for a son to kill his own father, but—"

"No," said Connor firmly.

"I can see to it for you, if you'd like."

"That will not be necessary, Bobby."

There was another period of tense silence, punctuated by the clatter of crates being moved and the cry of gulls.

"How long have we known each other, lad?"

"I think it will be six years this spring."

"And in all this time I've never once questioned your judgment, but—"

"There were a few times," said Connor in a tone that sounded teasing.

"I ought to have tanned your hide, jumping into that godawful pit like that, I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest," the old man growled back. "And don't change the topic."

Haytham felt something clench in his chest and realized with a frown that he was... well, _jealous_, frankly. He tried to suppress the feeling, but found that he could not. The boy was his blood, his only child, and it seemed like Haytham couldn't even speak with him without a brawl ensuing. The old man and Connor seemed to have such an affable relationship, more like a father and son than captain and first-mate. Well, what had he expected? Faulkner and Achilles had practically raised the boy after he had left his village for whatever reason. Connor had all the family he could ever want, it seemed. Haytham had been such a fool to think that Connor would want anything to do with the distant stranger that had dedicated a fair amount of time and energy to killing him.

It was Falkner who asked the question on Haytham's mind:

"Just what is it you're trying to accomplish? Why is he even _here_?"

Indeed. If the boy had merely wanted him dead, that could have been easily arranged.

"If I had a good answer for you, Bobby, I would have given it," said Connor, sounding as exhausted as Haytham felt. "It's just—if I could only make him see..." He sounded wistful, introspective.

"See what?" _Yes, see what? _thought Haytham, but the boy didn't answer.

"Now is not the time or the place to discuss the matter." His tone had changed, his voice taking on an air of authority, and he was no longer Connor the lad, but the Captain of the Aquila, the Ghost of the North Seas. "We need to get back to open water as soon as possible, Mister Faulkner."

"Aye, captain. We'll be ready to cast off soon."

By the time the Aquila set sail, it was full dark. The shouts and clatter of the crew diminished until Haytham heard no more than murmurs, the creak and groan of the ship's timbers and the lap of the waves. The only light available to Haytham was from the moon. It wasn't as if it mattered; his weapons were as sharp and clean as they were ever going to get, and even after hours of doing little to nothing, he was still bone-weary and sore. He huddled over his overcoat and an old but mercifully clean blanket.

He sat there for what felt like hours, and then he suddenly found himself walking the woods. It was the fall. Half of him was pleased, because autumnal New England was the finest, most beautiful place to be in the world, and half of him sighed in irritated resignation, knowing what would surely come next. Soon enough, he heard a giggle, and he looked up, and there were her large, dark, almond-shaped eyes, dancing with laughter, surrounded by leaves of russet, crimson and gold.

"Ziio, I—"

But she was off, fleet as a doe, sprinting effortlessly through the canopy of trees. Haytham was helpless but to give run after her. He had chased her for two decades. For years she had flitted through the trees, tantalizingly just out of sight, the only sign of her passage a rustle of branches in the distance, a gale of breathless laughter. He would follow, too winded to call out, tripping over tree roots and logs, slipping over rocks in icy streams, underbrush tearing his skin bloody and his clothes to rags. It was all for naught. Every time she would disappear and he would be lost in the woods, alone. Again and again. Night after night. Year after year.

But something changed. There was the crack of a branch, the report echoing through the forest like a gunshot, and Ziio fell. She drifted down slowly, like a snowflake, her hair floated around her head like a cloud of ink. She was naked, her beautiful skin adorned here and there with scars that he considered badges of honor.

"_Kenway..."_ he heard, but it is not her voice. It was very far away, in another world, and he ignored it.

He rushed forward and reached out his arms to catch her. The instant his fingers touched her, she shrieked, and where his skin touched hers it turned black. She tried to strike at him, to scratch with her nails, but her black fingers crumbled against his skin like charred wood. Her eyes were wide in agony. She screamed and screamed, her hair a halo of smoke.

"No! Don't leave me!" he cried, and held her to his chest, and only then did her screaming cease. She crumpled into his arms, so small, diminishing, loosing form, and then she blew away, ash and smoke.

"_Kenway!"_

Something touches his shoulder and his hidden blade flicks from his wrist. His eyes flashed open and for an instant he was blinded. He growled and lashed out, but his blade struck only wood.

"Goddamn it, Kenway, stop!" The voice sounded familiar. Haytham paused, squinting.

"Faulkner?"

* * *

A/N I realize the end of the chapter is awkward, but this was part of a larger chapter that just got too large for my tastes


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: So when I first started writing this, I was apprehensive because I didn't know if people would like it if it differed much from _Forsaken_. Now, after I've read the book, I see I really needn't have been that worried. I'm not going to spoil anything, but I was reeaally disappointed. Anyone else?

Also, a thank you to Lili-hunter, who's doing an excellent job as a beta!

* * *

There was a clatter and the light dimmed as the old man closed the shutter on the lantern that he carried. His face was livid. "Almost stabbed me in the goddamned _arm_, you bloody bastard," he complained.

"You shouldn't have startled me," was all Haytham could say, groggily, disturbed that the old man had caught him unawares. He was not usually such a heavy sleeper. He should have been able to smell the man coming; Faulkner reeked of spirits.

"I called your name five times," Faulkner growled.

"With good reason, I hope." Haytham ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. God, if that was what he would be dreaming for another twenty years...

"Captain wants you topside, _Master_ Kenway," he spat.

"To what end?" asked Haytham, wary.

"Has some questions, I expect."

"Wonderful," sighed Haytham, throwing his coat over his shoulders. Oil the rack and break out the thumbscrews, the dead of night was apparently interrogation hour on the Aquila. Haytham wondered what new crime the fool boy expected to charge him with this time. Faulkner stepped back into the passage to allow Haytham to exit. The old man started down the passage, in the opposite direction of the stairs.

"I thought you said Connor was topside," said Haytham to his retreating back.

"He is," the old man grumbled.

"You're not escorting me?"

Faulkner stopped and regarded him with weary, blood-shot eyes. "You need me to hold yer hand?"

Haytham's lip curled. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

Faulkner's reply was a muttered curse and to turn his back and amble down the passage. So, he was trusted to find his own way, then. Haytham didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted. Did they think him not a danger, now that they were out of sight of land? He valued his life above all else, save the Order. They knew that. Certainly, he wasn't about to jump ship into the freezing embrace of the Atlantic, or start a fire to burn the ship into the water. Nor was he like to kill Connor and seize the ship himself; he needed a crew, and the men aboard the Aquila were loyal to their young captain. Ah, but would they hate Haytham's gold? That was something to consider.

Haytham made his way topside. The deck was quiet and sparsely staffed. Connor was near the wheel, his clothes tidy and blood-free. Haytham's trunk was there as well, open, and Connor was bent over its contents. The fact that Haytham had been so handily captured had been a serious blow to his ego, but at least Haytham had not been so incautious to have brought anything pertaining to the Order with him. If Connor had hoped for private correspondences or evidence to be used against the Haytham or the Templars, he was going to be very disappointed. Still, there were things in that trunk that he would rather the boy didn't see, and the fact that Connor had so enthusiastically rifled through his things was no small offense.

"Your education is lacking, boy. I see Achilles taught you nothing of simple courtesies," said Haytham coldly. Connor's head jerked up at the sound of Haytham's voice and he scowled as his father mounted the quarterdeck.

"What is this?" demanded Connor without preamble, holding up a slim, battered document; more a pamphlet, really. He suppressed a groan, recognizing it. Haytham suspected that Connor had attempted to read it because it was short.

"Ah, I believe your people call it a 'talking paper.'" It was a remarkably hateful statement, especially from Haytham who had nothing but respect for the natives, but days of confinement with nothing but a bucket crusted with his own excrement for company had sharpened his tongue. The dark look on Connor's face was strange—If Haytham had been pressed to use one word to describe it, he would have picked triumphant. He didn't know quite what to make of it at the time, but when he mused on it later, Haytham supposed he had painted himself rather neatly into whatever crude caricature of a human being that Connor had constructed for him: arrogant, cruel and racist.

"It's meant to be satire," explained Haytham, interrupting whatever retort Connor had prepared.

"'Satire?'" echoed Connor, his frown deepening.

"'Humorous social commentary."

"So eating children is meant to be funny?"

"Only if they're Irish," said Haytham, with utmost solemnity. Connor's lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.

"You are _every bit_ the monster tha—"

"Oh, for God's _sake_, Connor! I do _not_ advocate eating children!" yelled Haytham, appalled, not caring if the volume drew stares from the skeleton crew. "The author was distressed by the way the poor of Britain are treated and regarded little better than livestock. He wrote the damned thing to illustrate their plight."

"I see," said Connor, lips crimped, and dropped the subject, perhaps realizing how foolish the notion was. Haytham had much to answer for, but a propensity for roasting suckling babes in place of a Christmas goose was not one of them.

"And this one?" Connor pulled another book from Haytham's trunk, the leather spine cracked to show the threading, the corners dog-eared and worn bare. Haytham was a master at controlling his facial expressions, but he must have slipped, made some worrisome look, for Connor's eyes glittered dangerously as he held the book between two careless fingers.

"Ah. That's one of my favorites," Haytham admitted. Connor arched a dark eyebrow, suspicious.

"Why? Does it suggest pushing grandmothers from bell towers? The joys of killing puppies with hammers?"

"My father used to read it to me when I was a child."

There was a pause. "Your father the Assassin."

Haytham was mildly disappointed. He had been looking forward to the look of shock on Connor's face when Haytham delivered that little family detail, but it seemed that Achilles had stolen that pleasure from him as well. He wondered how much Connor knew about his European heritage.

"Yes. On the evenings he wasn't out killing people in some exercise in futility."

Connor scoffed, "I have a hard time picturing you as a child."

"Funny. I have no difficulties picturing _you_ as a child."

Connor narrowed his eyes but didn't rise to the bait. Rather, he flipped open the cover and examined it, dark eyes thoughtful. Then, he closed it and held the book out to Haytham.

"Read it to me, then," said Connor.

Haytham was taken aback by the request. He looked around them. It was impossible to tell what time it was, but it had been dark for hours. There was a smattering of crew members still on deck enough to trim the sails should Connor give the order, but the rest were long abed.

"For how long?" demanded Haytham, unable to keep the complaint from his tone. "It's late." He was exhausted, unkempt, and in no mood for dealing with his willfully ignorant son.

"Until the sound of your voice no longer makes me want to punch you in the face," said Connor, his tone exasperated.

"Get on with it, then," suggested Haytham sharply. "I'd rather suffer a bloody lip than the indignity of indulging you. Read it yourself. You _can_ read, can't you?"

Connor's face reddened, and his free hand tightened into a fist for a moment, and then relaxed again. The young man regarded him silently for a few moments and then let out a ragged breath.

"I was taught to read, but not with great speed or skill," said Connor, slowly and carefully, in an attempt to keep his tone as neutral as possible. "Achilles does not have many books. Even if he did, my duties would not afford me the time to enjoy them. I would appreciate it, then, if you would read to me."

Haytham frowned at him. It was as if the boy had presented a rod for Haytham to beat him with. He was surprised that Connor would admit to this weakness, that he would leave himself so open to scathing derision. It gave Haytham pause, actually, and the snide remark he had been forming was forgotten. It made him feel somewhat... well, not guilty. No, certainly not that. Never. But Connor had simply wanted his company, it seemed, and Haytham had done everything he could to make the boy reject him. Haytham thought to deny him out of spite, but... he was out in the open air, and starved for entertainment. Even if the form of amusement was reading a book that he could just about recite from memory, that was better than no sensory input at all. Setting the business with Church aside, the whole point of his boarding the bloody ship in the first place had been to spend time with his son, to determine if he was perhaps more useful alive than dead.

"I'll need to fetch something," said Haytham, gesturing to the trunk. Connor nodded, and let him see to it. His things were in disarray. Haytham was still irritated that Connor had gone through his personal items, but supposed that it couldn't have been helped. Haytham would have done the same had their positions been reversed. Haytham retrieved a small wooden case and sat on a crate near the wheel beneath a lantern, well away from the ocean's spray. As he opened the little case, he fixed Connor with a withering glare.

"If you so much as laugh, or smile, or make any quips at my expense," warned Haytham, voice low, cold and laced with deadly promise, "I will make you wish I _had_ killed you in that church."

Connor frowned, confused by this sudden display of aggression—until Haytham placed a delicate set of wire-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. Haytham continued to glare at him, daring Connor to act so that Haytham could make good on his promise, but the young man managed to hide all expression save for a slight spasm at the corner of one lip, and even that was smoothed back down an instant later. Haytham counted himself lucky to grow so old as to be able to take advantage of Benjamin Franklin's newly invented bifocals, given his dangerous line of work, but he still found the recent necessity an embarrassment. He could see distances perfectly well, but small print had become a nuisance unless held out at arm's length.

The book was as familiar as an old friend, and it opened, out of habit, to a page with a hand-written note: _To my Little Eagle. May you never endeavor to journey the common road. Love, Father._

Connor resumed his position at the wheel, watching Haytham expectantly. Haytham cleared his throat, and began.

"I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family..."

* * *

A/N: I got the idea for this chapter while I was thinking about how I would poop my Pampers if I got a hold of an audio book read by Haytham's voice actor.

Also, I don't mean to make our epic hero look like a simpleton, but, historically speaking, Connor probably wouldn't have been a great reader. He strikes me as a bit more outdoorsy. And, indeed, when would he have had the time?

The two books mentioned featured in this chapter are _A Modest Proposal_ by Johnathan Swift, and _Robinson Crusoe_ by Daniel Defoe. I'm thinking most people are probably familiar with _Robinson Crusoe,_ but if you're unfamiliar with _A Modest Proposal_ then I DEMAND that you stop right now and read it. It's _really_ short, like, all of a dozen pages. It's at Project Gutenberg. I'd post a link, but apparently that's not allowed.

Better yet, get the audio book version (from a dandy public domain source like LibriVox, for free) and play it during a long car ride. Particularly if you have passengers that are unfamiliar with the work. Hilarity will ensue—or an uncomfortable silence, depending on the passengers.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I'm sorry for not posting with any sort of regularity. I've been working on other projects and other stories-and this one kinda got put on the side of the road for a bit because _I don't know what to do with it_. Obviously I don't want a tired rehash of the events of the game, but I don't know what direction to take this. Do I have it strictly be father/son bonding? Philosophical debate of Assassins versus Templars? What happens after they get back to land? I dunno. I open the notes file for the story and poke at it from time to time, and it just sort of groans and rolls over on it's side, lazy, fat and confused. So I'll have to figure out what to do with this before I go any further.

ANYWAY. I appreciate all of the wonderful comments and every time I get an email saying I have another review I get all sorts of squishy happy feels.

Thanks again to Lili-hunter for doing such an ahhh-_mazing _and thorough beta-ing of my work.

* * *

"...Hugging their children to their breasts, all stained with blood. There sev-several young vir..." Connor's scowl deepened.

"'Virgins.'" Haytham provided with a smirk. He was at the wheel, arms draped over it loosely. There were no cross winds or currents to contend with, so really all Haytham had to do was keep it steady. A wheel lock could have done the job, but he enjoyed the novelty of being at the helm of the frigate. Connor was seated nearby, frowning over the book.

"It means a person who has not yet—"

"I know what it means, do _not _elaborate," Connor said quickly.

Ah, bonding time. By day, the two men would avoid each other as much as possible. The Aquila was no Man-o'-War, but father and son could still go hours without coming into contact with one another. They had just barely reached the point where they could talk without coming to blows, but most of their conversations were still tense and clipped, never straying far from nautical topics. If either happened to mention the Templars or the Assassins, there was like to be a screaming match that ended with both men in so foul a mood that neither was of any use to anyone for hours. Neither man asked personal questions. Haytham suspected that Connor's thoughts mirrored his own; that the young man was sizing him up, weighing possibilities, and Haytham did his best to keep his snide comments and criticisms to himself. Most of them, anyway; it was the boy's fault, really, for leaving himself open to attack.

Despite the occasional pitfall, the situation gradually relaxed. Rather than being confined to his quarters, Haytham was allowed to roam the ship at will. Very quickly he grew to appreciate the small and meager accommodations; at least he had not been made to sleep in a room with two dozen other snoring, coughing, carousing sailors. Despite Connor's earlier threats, Haytham's duties were relatively light and were usually relayed by Faulkner so that Haytham did not have to suffer the indignity of being ordered around by someone half his age, much less his own son. He learned how to deploy sails, tie decent and reliable knots, load and fire a cannon, and use a sextant to navigate by the stars, among other things. He ended each day exhausted, but oddly satisfied. By the end of the week Faulkner even begrudged him a complement or two.

At night, when most of the crew had turned in, Haytham and Connor took turns reading to each other on the bridge or in Connor's cabin. Connor had confessed that Achilles' library had a few works of fiction, some Greek classics, but the majority consisted of nothing more intellectually stimulating than almanacs. Initially, Haytham had prodded Connor to read Machiavelli's _The Prince_, intriguing the boy with the fact that the Italian had been both an Assassin and an ally of their ancestor, Ezio Auditore, but Connor evidently found the political machinations in the work to be both disquieting and too dry to read aloud. That night, Haytham had set him to reading Voltaire's _Candide_. Connor read slowly but with reasonable proficiency, stumbling over only the occasional word.

"Young virgins, who's bodies had been ripped open, after they had sat-satisfied the natural ness-necessities—I do not think I wish to read this anymore," Connor said, looking almost stricken. Haytham rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps you ought to take up farming, what with your delicate sensibilities and all."

Connor shot him a look. "Just because I am fighting a war does not mean I wish to read about it for pleasure," Connor mumbled.

"It's only the second chapter; it becomes more amusing later on, I promise."

"Another night, perhaps."

"Something else, then?"

"Please."

"Well... This is as good enough a time as any to show you these, I suppose," said Haytham, and he drew out a slim leather folio from his cloak and handed it to Connor. Haytham watched the boy's eyes as he opened the folder, hard and suspicious as they examined the loose pages, and then soften as he began to read the words.

"What are these?" he asked quietly.

"Letters."

Connor's eyes quickly scanned the handwriting. The penmanship was crude, the characters block-like and clumsy, in stark contrast to the exquisite and detailed renderings of animals and plants that accompanied them. The letters were short, but what they lacked in length, they made up for in substance. They read more like poems then correspondence.

"These are my mother's, are they not?"

It was a risky move on Haytham's part. Neither man had mentioned Ziio since the day they had fought blade to blade. It was clearly a painful subject for Connor, even more than a decade after her death, and Haytham wanted... He wasn't sure. Closure, perhaps, or to vindicate himself, or to merely open up some sort of dialogue between them that didn't involve rudders, sails or rope. For a long time, neither man spoke.

"Did you really love her?" Connor asked. The raw, naked emotion in his son's eyes made Haytham uncomfortable, and he looked away, across the bow of the ship.

"Is that so surprising?"

"I just have a hard time imagining you loving anything but your Order."

Ziio had apparently thought as much. It had been snowing, the last time he had seen her. The world had been reduced to white, black and gray. He was cold, exhausted, and his horse gusted great clouds of steamy breath, evidence of a hard ride. Even William Johnson's meticulous notes and hand-drawn maps of the area had been vague about the location of the village. He had stumbled upon it by accident, and doubted he could have found it again even if he wanted to.

By that point it had been nearly half a year since he had seen her. They had both made their excuses; Ziio had cited the fall, hunting while the game was still plentiful; Haytham had been busy setting up centers of operation in Boston and New York. They wrote, Haytham far more often then she, but her letters became more and more infrequent, and when Haytham's courier in Lexington said that no one had been by to retrieve his letters in many weeks, he had ridden out.

They saw him coming, of course, and he was met outside the wooden palisade by a dozen men with spears and axes. They spoke to him in gruff voices and hostile tones, both in their language and in broken, pidgin English. Overwhelmingly, the impression was "leave." But he would not. Could not, not until he saw her, knew that she was safe. He called her name out, again and again, and a figure emerged through the throng of men. Ziio was all but smothered in an enormous bear-skin cloak. Her face was fuller, the skin under her eyes puffy. He hadn't known what to make of it at the time, but in retrospect she must have been at nearing the end of her term with Connor.

The look in her eyes... in an instant, he knew it was over. Months prior he could have spent hours staring into her warm, laughing eyes, but these were filled with a cold, barely contained fury. They were red, though from weeping or camp smoke he could not say.

"You lied to me," she had said without preamble, voice as icy as the surrounding hills.

"I did no such thing," was his futile defense.

"You did not reveal the truth. It is the same difference." She jerked her chin at his right arm, at the bracer that still bore the broken insignia of his father's Order, of the Assassins. "You let me believe that you were something that you were not."

"Ziio—"

"You are a Templar. The same as Braddock."

He remembered his shock. His mind had raced. How could she have possibly known? How had she even known what the word had meant? Who could have told her? She had never commented on the symbol at his bracer before, had never given it a second glance, and yet it seemed that she knew what it had meant, had assumed that his bearing it meant that he himself was an Assassin. Which meant that she knew what Assassins were. Which also meant that she had had dealings with them before. Haytham had suspected by then that there was a nest of Assassins in the Americas, and Ziio was the proof of it. They had somehow tainted her, poisoned her heart against him, convinced her that his noble cause was something to be mistrusted and feared.

To be compared to Braddock, of all people, to that butcher, he wouldn't stand for it. "I am _nothing_ like that bastard! He—"

"Sought to exploit us! To conquer this land! And you were his _brother!_" she spat.

"I will not be held accountable for the actions of that monster."

Her mouth had been set in a hard, thin line. "You hide what you desire behind pretty words, but it is the same thing. You want to enslave us. To take our land from us."

He and Johnson had been making quiet, tentative plans to use Haytham's substantial wealth to acquire the land rights, to keep the expanding colonies from laying their ever grasping hands on the valley where the precursor site lay, and to keep them from pushing the Kanien'kehá:ka out. So, she had learned about that as well, but from whom?

"That's not true, Ziio. we merely wanted to keep the land safe—"

"—Oh, so it _is_ 'we,' then—"

"—And to keep men like Braddock from exploiting you!"

She had shook her head. "Did you even care that my people were being enslaved? That we were being forced from our lands? Or were we just a means to an end to you?"

_Only at first,_ he could have said, but he didn't dare.

"I came across an ocean to find an archeological site, yes—and I made contact with you with the intention of researching it—but I could care less about some old cave paintings, now. They matter little to me. I found something that means so much more to me." He reached out a hand to her, only to have it slapped away.

"You have touched me for the last time," she hissed.

"Ziio, I love you."

But she shook her head, jaw tight. "You don't even know what that word means."

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then you have failed," she had said, and turned her back on him. And then she had walked out of his life forever.

At least, that's what he had thought—until Connor had showed up.

Haytham looked out over the ocean as Ziio's son closed the folder shut. "I would like to read these in private, I think."

"You can keep them, if you'd like," said Haytham, feeling uncommonly generous.

Connor looked surprised. "Are you certain?" At Haytham's slight nod, the boy tucked the folio into his coat. "Thank you."

They were silent for a time, neither knowing quite what to say to the other, when Connor spoke again.

"She kept your letters," Connor said quietly. "She started to teach me how to read with them."

"Do you have those as well?"

"No. The fire destroyed them," said Connor with a touch of steel to his voice. That damned fire. Everything came back to that hideous incident. Haytham frowned at him.

"I told you, that was not my doing, nor Charles'."

"Why was he there that day, then?"

The Precursor site. That disastrous fool's errand. He can't very well tell the boy, though. The cave might be useless, at least by itself, but if an Assassin were to start to investigate, well...

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

Connor made an irritated sound and looked back out over the ocean. He thought back to what the boy said, about the letters.

"How long have you known that I was your father?" Haytham asked.

"I have always known," Connor said immediately.

Haytham was shocked. He had just assumed that Connor's revelation had been as recent as his own.

"Why?" Haytham sputtered, "Why didn't you seek me out, if you've known all this time?"

"The clan mother told me that you would not want to see me. That you would kill me if you found out."

Haytham seethed, so full of inarticulate rage that he gripped the balustrade to keep from lashing out at something, anything, so that the pain in his hands would overshadow the pain in his chest.

"And why would I strive to kill my own son?"

"I have been asking myself that question every day since my village burned," he said coolly.

"If I had known," Haytham said, as he tried to rein in his temper, "that you had even existed... Nothing could have stopped me from coming to you. Nothing. I could have raised you—"

"And that," Connor said, frowning, voice thick with some emotion that Haytham could not name, "is why you were never told."

Both men stared out at the waves for a time, not speaking, the silence between them heavy and brittle.

"There must be gods after all," Haytham growled finally. Haytham was not an atheist, but near enough as cynical as to make no discernible difference. Connor looked at him, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"Gods. Only someone omnipotent and cruel could engineer a situation as hideous as this."


End file.
